the prodigious glare of perpetual lightning
by iantha-a
Summary: Back in the midst of the American Revolution, lieutenant colonel Hamilton converses with the rich and kind Elizabeth Schuyler, whose figure in blue reminds him of a man he shouldn't even be thinking of. Part 2 of the oh can't wait to see you again 'verse.


**AN: The title is from a letter the historical Hamilton writes about the hurricane that devastated his town. This is the second installment of the "oh can't wait to see you again" 'verse. This was crossposted in AO3.**

**Come talk to me on my Tumblr: meehla. Reviews mean more fics, so tell me what you thought about this on the comments! Thanks for reading you guys. **

* * *

Ever since he's known her, he's noticed one thing about Eliza: she loves wearing blue, all types of shades and tones draped carefully over pale flesh, a sharp contrast of colors. It's all the same, blue, blue, blue.

(Sometimes Alexander wishes she had taken a liking to another color instead, sometimes he hopes.)

But she hasn't and she wears it proudly. It's everywhere. From the color of the ribbons she weaves through her hair, the flowers she picks up from her gardens to adorn the tea table, the thin, flowy nightgowns, to the dozens of dresses stored away in the house. Blue, blue, blue.

She's with him one day, a rare occurrence,—Alexander almost never has time to get away from camp,— taking tea in the parlor of her family's state, her chaperones suspiciously absent. His smile is flirty, while he's shifting in the too-big uniform he wears, cradling a cup of tea. It's boiling hot, Alexander presses his hands tighter against the porcelain.

That day Eliza's wearing her hair down. A maiden's hairstyle, he thinks. A few strands of her hair woven with ribbons, framing her face. It's different from all her other hairstyles, she always keeps her hair in a bun or curled at the top of her head. Still, she's cheerful sight, his dear Eliza, a mischievous grin on her face. Shifting he takes notice of her attire, unconsciously tugging at the sleeve of the uniform.

It's blue, of course. That day it's deeper blue, the skirt smooth and flowy. It's a deeper blue, darker, like the ocean's deep waters, the waves crashing, he can't—

Alexander takes a sip of the burning tea to stop himself from saying something he might regret.

("It's a first," Burr would've said, mocking smile etched on his face, a smooth glare.

Alexander would have turned, a smirk creeping at the side of his face.

"Ha," he'd bark an angry laugh, jeering. "Your talk less, smile more motto would apply here, eh, wouldn't it boys?"

Tilghman would roll his eyes, amused, he's never intervened in his squabbles with Burr, while John would shake his head, but tilt his head in the way that made his eyes look greener than the dark blue they were, and then they would share one of those secret looks of theirs, and— )

"So," Eliza draws the word on, a hungry expression in her eyes. A look he's seen countless times in the mirror, hungry eyes seeking knowledge.

Eliza's the type of girl that's too polite and too kind in a way that often makes people wary. And sure, she's so kind and good, that he almost has to stop himself from wondering if it's all an act, or praising her out loud, though that would be dangerously close to toeing the line. His pride's too fleeing already, he mustn't appear like a lapdog. But she's also witty and has a level head. She's no ordinary upper-class lady, though hardly any of the Schuyler girls are. Thought her charm and wit combined with her graceful manner and brutal honesty make a good and unique combination. There's a fierceness in her he's only ever seen in people like him. Hopeless men, who yearn for glory and success and don't get whiff of what they dream of.

(He thinks sometimes when things get hard, when the words are stuck in his throat, and they just won't get out, please help, Maman, wake up! James, where's, I need to, I need to say—

Maman's cold body cradling him, his throat sore from all his panicked screaming, what's wrong with me, James, oh my god, Maman, James—

When John won't look at him for days and he will just stare at his hands in silent agony like he could see something that's not there. As he sneaks a hand behind his back and John recoils, shudders an expression of horror crossing his face and flees, oh my god Alexander, I can't I'm not normal, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, it should have been me instead all those years—

When Eliza would clutch her rosary close to her bosom, smile tightly and tell him her father wouldn't be home for a week more. She would turn and turn every time there was the sound of a carriage passing or a door opening and then turn back with a weary expression in her face, and he wanted to help her, he really did, but she just waved his worries away, His Will shall be what it shall be, and father is at His Will— But Peggy's worried, and Cathy and Cornelia are too little to understand—

He thinks sometimes when things get hard that it would've been easier to just stay in Nevis, in that little forgotten spot in the sea and just fade away. Like all ambitious men who tried but didn't win, like people like him who sometimes couldn't quite grasp some words and would float in a blank space trying to scream to win, and fail. But then he thinks of Eliza's easy smile, blue silk waved around her dark tresses, John's bloodied grin, his dark blue eyes glinting, his Maman's ribbons woven around his own hair and he thinks he quite likes this brand new him in this brand new country.)

Eliza's shared stories with him, about her mother's exasperated looks when she came back from playtime with a torn dress and ruffed boots that were clearly her father's, muddied from her exploring through the forest. Alexander hadn't hesitated in sharing a few of his scuffles with other men when he was younger.

("Where are you from?" she had asked once, tilting her head to the side as they danced. Her dark hair was up in a complicated hairdo, blue lace wrapped around her bun.

Alexander felt a knot on his throat. He preferred to avoid the topic if he could. "W-Why, Miss Schuyler, don't you think that is a quite scandalous comment?" Annie Schuyler had asked the same thing and received the same evasive response after all.

Eliza had pursed her lips, looked right at him, her black eyes glinted in the candlelight, and promptly taken the lead, swerving to one side. Alexander stumbling to keep up with her pace.

"I think not, Colonel Hamilton," she smiled mischievously, looking up at him. He felt the knot in his throat tighten, she expected response and he would have to answer her, as he couldn't well make a scene in front all the guests, to one of Philip Schuyler's daughters, no less.

She laughed happily and spun them around once, twice, thrice. He saw the Marquis from the corner of his eye, flirty smile in place, idly chatting with one of the younger sisters, Meg? Margie? He turned to look at Eliza, who had stopped spinning him around and was now humming a nursery tune under her breath.

"I'm not—I'm—" How dreadful had it been to feel his words get stuck in his throat, had the candlelights increased? There was a sharp contrast to the world he had seen one minute ago, he felt his hands shake.

And it turns out, so did she, because she slowed, her smile slipping from her face. Amidst his panic, Alexander had felt disappointed. They stopped dancing at all, but still, they were standing in the middle of the ballroom, and they would surely draw some attention and oh god—

Eliza pursed her lips again, clutched one of his hands and said: "Follow me."

She strode determined to one of the balconies, gripping Alexander's wrist with her hand. He tried to stop trembling but just felt himself shake horribly harder. Eliza pulled him closer and they faded into the crowd.)

Alexander clears his throat, tilting his chin up in a show of confidence. "So," he repeats, tone coy, setting his cup of tea down with trembling hands.

She leans forward, skirt rustling. "Colonel Hamilton—"

He doesn't even know why he interrupts her. "Alexander," he says, trying not to wince at his rudeness, damn it, Hamilton. His pride's hurting already, but he's started talking so he doesn't,—can't seem to stop.

The words spill from his mouth without his permission. "Please, miss, call me Alexander, after all," he shrugs, throwing her what he calls his most charming smile, the one that makes John chortle and girls turn red behind their hands, "we are courting are we not?" And you've seen me at my worst now.

Eliza gives a pleased little smile but doesn't say anything. Just raises the cup to her lips, sips her tea quietly, looking at Alexander with those black eyes. Her face is round, boyish, pleasant. Her dark hair falls in waves, the ends curling against her pale throat. She blinks, her eyes lashes inky black against her pink cheeks.

"Eliza, then," she speaks up at last. "Or well, you could call me Betsey if you'd like, Cornelia likes to stick to the traditional nicknames, of course, Col—Alexander." She gives him a smile. It's a nice smile, he thinks.

She's lovely with that wide smile, her lips curling at the ends and those eyes, he can't help but notice the little details, the way her cheeks are faintly pink, the dark shade of black of her eyes.

Alexander opens his mouth to pay her a compliment, and blurts out instead: "Why blue?"

Eliza blinks. "Ah," she says, tone surprised. Alexander gives her the beginning of a smile. She looks down at her skirts, "I suppose because that's the way it's always been. Mama liked dressing me up with blues and greys, said that it suited me. And I've developed a," she bits her lip, "certain fondness for the color."

There's a silence between them that's meant to be comforting, still, he shuffles, dimly aware of the royal blue of Eliza's ribbons, the sea blue of her skirts, the darker blue of his own uniform—no, John's uniform. His dark blue eyes, swirling deep like the water, the ocean—

Clenching his hands around the cup, he thinks firmly. Stop that, get your shit together Hamilton.

Alexander looks up. Eliza's peering at him from behind her cup, worrying her lip.

"You shouldn't do that, it just makes them rougher," he says without thinking.

Eliza smiles. "Not good for kissing?"

"Nah." She's stifling a laugh, he realizes. Eliza shuffles close, a secret smile creeping in her eyes.

(Sometimes Alexander is amazed by the warm camaraderie they share, sometimes it amuses him how the two can fit so close, almost like puzzle pieces. It depends.

But still, there's something wrong about him too. A muddled puzzle piece that can fit more than one. Maybe it's sick, like his mind, but he'll just have to deal.)

"It's your turn, Alexander. What colors do you prefer?" It's not a challenging question.

He's talking before he even knows it. This certainly is easier than polite conversation. "Green, brighter greens, darker ones, too. Maman's eyes were green, Papa's were blue, I guess. I don't quite recall, he— Well, we still keep in touch. I've talked to you about him. Blue's not my personal favorite, there are some—And, well, " he thinks of John then, suddenly aware he's wearing his uniform. "Golden browns, blacks, too of course," he adds quickly, remembering Eliza's eyes.

Eliza purses her lips, peers, at her cup of tea thoughtfully. Then—

"My sister is very fond of you, you know." Alexander's heart skips a beat. "Thinks of you highly, she's the wittiest of us five girls, so of course she's right. Annie," she pauses, stirs her tea. "Annie likes wearing," her brow creases, "more cheerful colors, warmer tones. Salmon, pinks and the like."

(Alexander thinks of fierce Annie Schuyler, she favored creams, faded pinks, many layers of laces, the tiny little details on her dresses. Annie that is a woman unlike anyone he's met before, that wears the pink bodice and lace-like a warrior would wear armor. Who writes him long, fond letters, full of interesting gossip, who calls him her brother already.

"My dear Alexander," a mischievous glint in her eyes, the curl of her lip. She's smirking. "You ought to know that we women are the best at finding out the best secrets there are."

Pity, some would say, that she's a woman. But he just thinks it makes her even more fascinating indeed.)

Alexander fiddles with his cup, there's a curious smudge in the base. "Miss Annie, um—Angelica is a very dear to me, very clever, I'm sure she shall be,—and from I've seen she is already,— a wonderful older sister."

Eliza looks at him, her eyes are narrowed, and her expression reminds him oddly of John after he comes back from a battle, slightly worn edges creeping upon him, but also a relieved wonder. He wonders if he would say something, but then she laughs heartily, says: "For whom, Alexander, dear, me or you?"

She shoots him a pretty smile, showing off her dimples. Then she laughs again, she has a delightful laugh as he soon finds himself joining in. After a moment she puts down her cup of tea, still chuckling, squints.

"Oh, I hadn't noticed," she says almost shrugging, her mouth curling into a vague smile. "That uniform," she reaches out to fiddle with one of the coat's buttons.

(Daring, he thinks. Kind, witty and daring.)

"It is the first time I've seen you wear that uniform. Yours was a bit ragged last time, huh?"

He tries not to wince. Eliza's overwhelmingly honest, she doesn't mean to be rude after all. Alexander gives her his best smile. "Well, we are at war after all," he concedes.

Eliza quirks an eyebrow. "Was it the Battle of Writing Very Important Letters?" She laughs, not unkindly.

"I don't—" Alexander brow furrows. The Battle of— What? Is it irony or something of the kind? "I've never seen battle, you know that, my darling Eliza."

Eliza bits her lip. "I was just jesting, Alexander." He feels his face burn hot with shame.

"Ah," he says quietly, looks down at his almost empty cup of tea. He reaches out for the pot and refills it, feeling very foolish. It's stupid the way he can't quite get inside jokes and playful secrets. It certainly hadn't won him many friends, if people hadn't liked his inability to keep his mouth shut, then they had liked less his inability to keep secrets. It hadn't made him very popular back in Nevis.

"Well," she drawls, changing the topic, "is it new? Where did you get it?"

(Alexander understands her bewilderment, it's not often that they get new materials. Less for a,—even General Washington's,— an aide who has never seen the battlefield.

And the coat shines like silk, a deep dark blue. The buttons glint on the lazy afternoon, golden light flickering. He's pretty sure they are gold, only John, really. He feels decidedly strange in that strange clothing, soft and cool, nothing like the harsh burn of wool-like he's used to.)

Alexander tilts his chin up, an almost arrogant smile creeping up his face, mimicking John when he's about to get into fights, facing men about twice his height, his foolish and reckless John. Still, his insides are squirming.

"Well," he reaches out for the hand in his uniform. Eliza looks up, her cheeks a pretty pink, seeming all flustered, but there's a calculating glint in her eyes. "No, mine actually did get destroyed. Too much ink pots falling on me, you see. This is a," he licks his lips. Alexander's chest suddenly feels tight.

(What had John said? "A friend gifted me a new coat," he repeated.

Alexander blinked, startled. He chortled a laugh. "Laurens, don't be foolish. Why can't I say, the truth? That you've just given it to me for a while?"

"Well, high society like the Schuylers won't take that lightly. And we'll," John's blue eyes twinkled, he barked a light laugh. "My dear Alexander. It's yours now!")

"This is a new one, a gift of sorts from a comadre in arms..."

Eliza hums, "Oh?" Her hand is still in his, Alexander pulls away quickly, feeling shameful even though he shouldn't be. "Yes, Colonel Laurens, John Laurens, from the South. Perhaps you know of his father, or of him..."

* * *

"Hammie," John Laurens repeats exasperatedly, looking annoyed, his mouth fading into a frown. "Put it on!"

He throws the coat in Alexander's direction, he catches it easily with a half-hearted grumble. "I don't know John, maybe I'm being too—too..." he bits his lip in frustration, almost drawing blood. Alexander's hands are trembling again. Great, he thinks dryly, just what I need, the beginning of another foolish breakdown. He clenches his hands, tries to concentrate. "Uh, how would Burr say it...?"

John smiles for the first time in the conversation. It's a quiet sort of smile, that stretches over his face, awakening his eyes, a mix of dark blue and silvery gold, maybe a coppery blue. Alexander huffs, trying to slip on the coat to stop his trembling hands.

But they are already past the point of light trembling, they are shaking like an earthquake, like a hurricane, dark blue water, the waves crashing, where's his brother—

"Alexander?"

"Damn," he mutters frustratedly. There's a rustle of sheets and then there's John behind him, wrapping his bare arms around his torso. Alexander squirms, he half gasps: "Not– not right now, I–ugh—" his voice cuts off.

John nods and the tight grip he has on his body loosens. He turns and faces Alexander, looking right at him for a moment. He shudders, shoulders dropping, his whole posture slumping.

"Alright, now," he croaks, dimly noticing the coat has fallen to the floor. John hugs him tight and rests his chin in the crook of Alexander's collarbone, burying his face there. Both of them stay there like that, bodies pressing close, his arms cradling, for what feels like a lifetime.

(Alexander can feel John's body pressing against his own. His mouth pressed open-mouthed against his collarbone. If he'd like he'd tell him every detail about his body, how his straw-colored hair curls at the ends tickling his cheeks. The blue, blue, so frightening and drowning blue of his eyes. The way the curve of his neck stretches on and on, pale and inviting—)

Both stay like that for what feels like forever, but it's only a few minutes until the trembling subsides.

"Fuck," Alexander swears, untangling himself from John. He can't quite look at him in the eyes after that stupid, thoughtless display. He picks up John's new coat and stares at it, there's a little bit of dust from where he dropped it on the floor. He shakes it until he can't see the dust and very carefully puts it on.

He smoothes the coat with his hands, trying to stand up a little straighter. Alexander purses his lips. He shakes his head. No, he decides and starts taking off the coat.

"Wait, Alexander," a hand reaches out for his and stops him on his tracks. He looks up to see John's blue eyes boring down at him. He turns his body and John hugs him again this time from behind. "Don't take it off. I didn't mean to offend you, I know you don't like gifts, well, expensive ones. Just, keep it on. I think you look lovely," John says, burying his face Alexander's hair.

No, no, Alexander mouths, frowning and shakes his head wildly.

"Handsome," John says. "My handsome b-boy." Alexander tries not to notice how his voice trembles at the end, how he shuffles his feet nervously. John's struggling too. Reaching behind him, a hand raising slowly, he traces the line of John's jaw, until he reaches his curls, cradled between his pale cheeks and his collarbone.

He takes a breath. "Burr would say—abrasive." John shifts, hums, passing a hand through his auburn hair.

"My Laurens," the words start to tumble out of his mouth like a river. "John, god what if we are wrong? If she does not agree—"

It hurts to admit it, his pride already wounded enough, because of the borrowed uniform, his little shaky display with the missing words. "Haven't you wondered if we're rushing it?" He stands up quickly, turning to face John.

He's staring at Alexander, face flushed, his shirt half undone, corn colored hair falling out of his ponytail. He feels himself loosening up, a little confidence starting to build up.

Relaxing a little, he purses his lips. "John,—Laurens, love. What if—we're rushing it? Haven't you thought, Bet—Eliza? She's too sweet, too good—"

"But she's a rich one, not exactly compassionate are they?" John says with a snort, his tone a little bitter. He's probably thinking about his family, his ongoing distance from his father. "She's all good and that, but what if she doesn't—"

"John!" He turns and placed a hand on his shoulder, tone a little irritated. "You know very well she's not like that! And you of all people should now—"

Alexander twists around, biting the inside of his mouth. John was born in a silver platter, raised as the golden boy of his family. It's not fair, he thinks angrily. That John gets to play this angry resentful boy who has never had anything, while he has had everything! He has a father who he can see daily if he so wished, siblings who haven't left him—

"Ham—Alexander," then John's hands are firmly holding his own. "Look, I-I'm sorry. I apologize, alright? I just..." Alexander is still with his back at him, he can hear John take a deep breath.

Alexander turns, he reaches out for John's hands, cradling his own, meeting his eyes. John's stare burns, golden, a cooling yellow. Dark lashes forming only shadows. Like the eye of a hurricane.

(There are dark waves galloping, there's water everywhere. Alexander's running and running, he tries not to look behind him, he can feel the breeze of water on the back of his neck and oh my god—

James, James, James, like a chant in his head. He loses a shoe and he still keeps running, then he trips and falls to the floor. Alexander gasps, his eyes burn, his face against the sand, he struggles to stand up, but there's something on top of him.

James, he mouths tiredly, desperately clawing at the sand. The smell of the sea is nearer, his legs hurt and he can't breathe and he looks up and the sky is yellow, yellow, yellow—)

Standing still, untouchable, indestructible, a golden shield. John's been that way all the time Alexander's known him, too stubborn, too heavy minded. Always getting into unnecessary fights, hands always littered with bruises. A beaten-up shield, he thinks, heart-thumping, but still lovely and all his.

"Thanks," he fiddles with the hem of the coat, he can see how the little golden buttons are carefully stitched in the front, the clean colors that haven't faded yet. He looks at John, who's wearing a loose shirt, hair a halo around his shoulders.

Alexander motions towards his shirt, John smiles, all teeth. He knows how it sometimes bugs him to see little things out of place, so he indulges in those little pleasures, he thinks it's only one more of your stupid tendencies.

"Go ahead," he beckons him close, and he immediately begins straightening up his shirt, fiddling with the buttons.

John talks as he works. "Miss Schuyler's going to be great—good for both of us. We'll—We'll tell her. We will and she'll be good about it. You'll see, my dear boy. We're not rushing it."

Alexander looks at him, his chest has settled down, his ears are ringing. "We're not rushing it," he repeats confidently, shooting him a crooked grin, violet eyes meet coppery blue.

John chortles, an amused laugh slipping through. He shakes his head, curls tumbling behind him. Alexander bits his lip. "Shut it, John."

"Alexander, no, don't bit your lips"

"What?" says Alexander, leaning into him, eyes darkening. "Bad for kissing?"

John smirks, down at him. "It just makes them rough!"

Alexander rolls his eyes and bits down harder, waggling his eyebrows.

John lets out a weak laugh, so Alexander reaches out to tangle his hands in his hair, tug at the ribbon, untangling it his ponytail. As it falls in his hands he notices with faint panic that it's a silky blue, like the ones Eliza—

(It's rushing upon him, the water is blue, blue. His face is pressed against the sand and James is missing. The water curls around him, it's surrounding him, and Eliza is there too, and there's a storm raging in his ears and it's endless. He looks up and it's yellow, John all over again, the eye—)

"Alexander, you alright?"

Gasping he buries his face in John's arms, the ribbons slip from his grasp. He holds Alexander tight. It reminds him of Eliza then, a steady presence and—

* * *

"Alexander? Are you alright?"

Alexander looks up, there's still a buzzing in his ears. Mouth dry, he manages to nod. Sending a pleasant smile to Eliza, who's worried face threatens to pull him back under that horrendous spell.

"I was just- thinking of something. I've told you about Mr. Laurens, right? Well, did I ever tell you how I meet Mr. Laurens? Well, I call him John, because we've becomes very good friends..."

Eliza places her cup of tea down, smiles at him. "Do tell, Alexander," she says and pays rapt attention after, her smile crinkling up the corners of her face.

Later on, he thinks about that moment. If John, his dear Laurens is the eye of his hurricane,— a moment of silence amidst the raging war, a golden aegis that shields from an endless raging world. Then maybe Eliza, his Betsey is the water itself, waving slowly, ever-changing. Beckoning, wrapping herself around him, steady and there.

(John's a fighter, burning bright. He seeks fights like someone might seek air. He grins while his mouth bleeds. Eliza's a mediator, not unlike what Burr hopes to accomplish. She giggles, her dark eyes happy.

And maybe his Laurens can still be his eye, burning yellow, a shield because his Betsey will be the water that holds his in place.)

There's John pulling him down, his pale hair catching in the candlelight, his eyes flicker between silvery gold, glittering and blue. He closes around him, perhaps he whispers his name, the way you like it best, voice rough—

And there's Eliza holding him close to her bosom, hands in his waist, a laugh spilling in a smile. She clasps his hands and buries her face in his neck, laughing—

Alexander sinks, deep and deep, water flapping around him, wrapped in blue, Eliza's twinkling laugh; yellow shining down, John's hair shining in the light—he sinks, deep, deep, yellow and blue. He sinks and he can't regret it.


End file.
